


The Toil of Discovery

by Celine_Lister, shinyhuman



Category: Ammonite (2020), Gentleman Jack (TV)
Genre: AKA, As historically accurate as 2 fanfic writers can aspire to be, F/F, Fluff, Fossils, Just some fossil lesbians fossiling, Smut, but listen we are not historians, ffs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:13:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27948107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celine_Lister/pseuds/Celine_Lister, https://archiveofourown.org/users/shinyhuman/pseuds/shinyhuman
Summary: Anne and Ann travel to Lyme Regis in search of Mary Anning, a woman whom Anne’s wealthy and scientific friends regard as “remarkable,” “fascinating,” and “on the cutting edge of new geological discoveries.” When the real Mary Anning falls short of her expectations, Anne learns to look beyond Mary’s humble existence, and together they discover something neither expected.
Relationships: Anne Lister (1791-1840)/Ann Walker (1803-1854), Mary Anning/Charlotte Murchison
Comments: 20
Kudos: 154





	1. The Proprietor

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly surprised it took four months of being in a relationship to write a fic together, but here we are! (Actually I’m ((shinyhuman)) not surprised, because it’s entirely my fault, as the molasses-slow state of my fics might suggest). I began writing this fic in September when I saw the trailer, and I’m humbled and honored that Celine dedicated her time to writing this with me, and the new writing process all of that involved. (Yes, she really does write so so fast—“Hey, do you want to write this with me? I was thinking you could focus on writing these bits?” “Sure, yes, here’s more than double your own manuscript, is that enough?” Her patience for me is infinite. I did not approve the message below.)  
> ***  
> Thank you for reading!!  
> All my ((Celine)) thanks go to the incomparable shinyhuman. Please forgive any and all mistakes, as they are mine. Anything brilliant and thought-provoking? Hers.  
> I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed writing quite so much.  
> Thank you thank you thank you

When Anne and Ann arrived at Lyme Regis, Anne watched apprehension wrinkle her wife’s brow and turn her lips. They surveyed the cliffs and the dramatic crash and spray of the waves through the foggy carriage window. Sea salt filled the air so densely she could taste it, and its purifying properties washed through her with every breath. 

“What are you thinking about?” Anne said breathlessly to her wife.

Ann’s melancholy had intensified lately, and the air here would be good for her. Every medical man Anne knew spoke of the research on sea water and its cure-all properties—it was well worth a try for her wife. Not that their trip to Lyme Regis was entirely about health. Ann reminded her more than once that there were plenty of places to go besides this, but the allure of certain curiosities made up Anne’s mind.

“It’s beautiful,” Ann finally said, with a lilt in her voice.

“But?” Anne pressed, not unkindly. 

“It’s…quaint. A bit—oh, I don’t know, Anne. It’s a bit weathered. A little shabby. Not a lot of elegance. Not that I don’t mind that, but usually we’re not staying in a place like this for so long,” Ann said. A soft smile touched her lips. “You usually seek out elegance. What’s got you so enraptured?”

Lyme Regis was an odd choice for her, that was true. Anne craved the elegance of court, her wealthy friends, and exotic destinations that made her aunt’s eyes gleam with wonder. Lyme Regis drew tourists for attractions like boating, walking across the Cobb, and the trinkets its residents sold on the streets like a perpetual market, but Anne craved a new adventure, even if it was so close to home. Fossils were glorious enough to see, but plucking them from the clay herself was a new level of discovery, like stumbling upon a mummy or ancient treasure. And in  _ England _ , no less!

Anne explained, “The idea of fossils doesn’t captivate you? They’re so  _ old, _ Ann. My friends—they know some of the scientists, er, geologists in London studying this stuff—say that these things might be hundreds of years old, or  _ thousands _ , or maybe older than a human being can comprehend. Some are saying it’s even heretical, that these bones are older than the Bible’s creation of the world. Regardless of their age, it’s fascinating, don’t you think, to see an animal totally stripped of flesh and fat and muscle, down to the barest essentials?”

Bless her wife. Ann took her hand into her lap and traced the lines in her palm with a finger. Her delicate touch sent a flutter through Anne’s stomach. They shared a smile despite themselves.

Ann said, “I guess I just don’t understand—can’t we observe all of this in a museum? Isn’t that why we went to London first?”

One of Anne’s first lessons in their young marriage was that Ann didn’t place the same value in  _ doing _ something as learning something. She was content to learn about fossils and fossil hunting without ever holding an artifact in her hands or getting her fingers dirty. It was enough for her to enter a museum and see the creature pinned and propped on display to its greatest magnificence, but Anne needed more. Anne needed the toil of discovery. She needed to efface rock from bone herself, to climb the cliffs, to learn from the wisdom of a true expert.

“I want to see how they mine them from the rock. My friends wrote that a woman—a Miss Anning—is the primary proprietor of fossils in the area. They’re saying she’s an expert. A  _ woman _ , Adney,” Anne emphasized excitedly. “I’d like her to take us to one of her cliffs and show us how she digs. I want to see the things before they’re prettied up. That experience—the sea air, the mud beneath your fingernails, the puzzle of piecing them together—is something a museum can’t give you.”

Ann squeezed her hand. They had entered the town, and her touch conveyed the kiss that couldn’t happen, even in the relative privacy of the carriage. Anne knew the one—Ann’s lips would brush hers with the same lightness of her lashes on Anne’s cheek, coy, intimate, permissive. 

“If that’s what you want,” Ann said sincerely. 

Anne took Ann’s hand on both of hers and squeezed back. Her fingertips lingered on Ann’s palm and her wife giggled from the sensation. She was already smiling. That was good.

“You’re very sweet to me,” Anne said. “I promise it’ll be a fun adventure, and a warm bed awaits us at the end of it.”

The carriage stopped at the highest point of town, overlooking the harbor. Cliffs that held the bones of monsters stepped off into the horizon. Ann marveled at them with gleaming eyes until the man-made harbor below—the Cobb—caught her attention. She’d read about it before in a book about ancient landmarks in England, but seeing it was another thing entirely. 

Large, gray stones broke the surface of the water, blocking off a path large enough for two to walk across side by side. The Cobb was an unremarkable thing until one considered how it was made. In a feat of engineering hundreds of years before, residents of the region piled oak deep into the ocean floor, then stacked rocks between them in layers until they broke the surface of the water. No binding agent was used. That was one of Anne’s primary questions about the structure—how were the stones bound together? Pressure? Human ingenuity? Sheer English willpower?

“Do you want to go for a walk on the Cobb?” Anne blurted.

Her wife met the question with wide eyes. “Oh, um, n-not really. It’s so close to the water. I’ll fall in, I know I will,” Ann said. “My brother—”

“I’ll keep a good hold of you. And swim to save you if you do—which you won’t,” Anne promised.

Ann bit her lips. “Maybe later. After we’re settled.”

Anne sat back and patted her wife’s hand, satisfied. That was as good as she was going to get. Ann was one of the few people in the world that said “maybe” and truly meant it.

Anne swung open the door before the carriage fully stopped, nearly smacking their groom on the nose. She turned to offer her hand to Ann, whose cheeks dimpled with a wide grin, and took it. Anne’s excitement was contagious, and her wife’s smile infectious—their joy radiated throughout a room, bouncing off each other. Until, of course, something snatched it away in a cold wind, like a call from Mister Washington or a new anxiety stoked by Ann’s family. Distractions built up between vacations, until even somewhere like Lyme Regis felt like a getaway.

Anne stopped a small boy by flashing a coin between her fingers. She looked down at him kindly and said, “Do you know where one could find a Miss Anning?”

The child nodded. He led them to a quaint little building with  _ Anning’s Fossil Depot _ painted in blocked lettering over the door. Various fossils, stones, and decorative wooden boxes filled the window display. Inside, tourists crowded glass display cases, fawning at the intricate beauty of cut and polished ammonites and coprolites, and staring awestruck at a massive crocodile-looking skull. Anne pet Ann’s cheek with the back of her hand while her wife’s eyes lingered on the gleaming trinkets.

“I’m going to find out where Mary is,” Anne murmured. “Will you be all right here?”

“Mhmm,” Ann hummed, and absently kissed the back of her hand.

Anne pushed her way to the front of the store where a woman sat at the register, picking at a fossil with a long, thin tool. Her eyes flickered to Anne’s empty hands, then back to her work.

“I’m looking for Miss Mary Anning,” Anne finally said. She often found that a strong, confident tone eased those who were too shy to speak into a conversation. “Do you know where I might find her?”

The woman let out a long, slow sigh, and said, “You’re speaking to her.”

Anne raised her eyebrows, taking her in. Mary Anning was unlike any woman she’d ever met, excluding herself. Wind, sun, and salt water weathered her skin, giving her the wrinkles and pockmarks of a woman decades older. Hard work gave her a lean and muscled figure. She regarded Anne with a flicker of annoyance. Anne encountered few women of her class that commanded such a presence.

“What do you want?” Mary said sharply.

Anne injected her voice with all the charm she could muster. She said, “My companion and I are big fans of yours, Miss Anning. We were hoping you could—"

“Can’t, sorry,” Mary interrupted, as though she weren’t sorry at all. “I’m not a tour guide. Go see the cliffs yourself, if you want. Mister Henley doesn’t mind. I’m working.”

“Is Henley your…business partner?”

“No. He owns the cliffs,” she said. Then she corrected, “Owns the city.”

Anne blinked. Unless Miss Anning was messing with her—and she didn’t look the type—her friends gave her the wrong information. Few landed women possessed the lean and muscled stature working folk acquired from hard, everyday living and years of meager eating. She thought Mary might have been an exception, like herself, and the sinew of her body was a result of her punishing hobby.

Surrounded by the busy shop, confronted by the woman herself, and with the waves of what she said washing over her, Anne realized fossiling wasn’t a hobby for Mary. It was a living. 

“He allows you to mine the fossils for free? He gets a cut from all this, surely?” Anne said in disbelief. “They come from Mister Henley’s property, yet I’ve never heard his name.”

Mary crossed her arms. She was a number of centimeters shorter than Anne, but stood as tall. She said, “Fossiling was a tradition here before Mister Henley ever bought this town. He knows this. And he’s not about to brave those cliffs himself. If I find something he likes, he gets it. Seems to be good enough for him.”

Anne swallowed. “I—yes, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. As a landowner myself, I can appreciate his generosity. I simply had no idea your finds were so numerous. Your own fame across the country—the world, really—is, no doubt, earned. How can I contest that when I’m surrounded by it?” she said, laughing.

“You’d be surprised,” Mary said tartly.

Anne’s brow wrinkled. Before she could ask for an explanation, a gentle voice called from the back room.

“What’s going on?” 

Its owner stepped into the shop moments later. Anne blinked. The girl looked like she belonged in front of the counter rather than behind it; she styled her hair in the current fashion, placed her hand properly on the skirt of her dress, and her dress was too extravagant to be sewn by her own hand, as Mary’s clearly was. Anne’s gaze caught on the girl’s wedding ring for a second too long.

“And this is…?” Anne prompted.  _ A wealthy patron? Your companion? _

“Mrs. Charlotte Murchison, my assistant,” Mary replied.

“She elevates me, really,” Charlotte added, grinning. “She does  _ all _ the work and knows absolutely everything. I’m here to make sure it’s not too easy.”

_Ah. Her companion,_ Anne confirmed. She stifled the small smile curling her lips. _I wonder if quiet Miss Anning has gotten a kiss out of her yet?_

“Miss Anning, we’ll give you a hundred pounds each for the privilege of accompanying you and your assistant to the cliffs,” Anne offered. It was an outrageous sum few could refuse. “Miss Walker doesn’t have the inclination to get her hands dirty, but you’ll find me an apt assistant.”

“Nothing like putting a price on dignity, eh?” Mary grumbled under her breath.

“Oh, Mary, but it’s a wonderful experience,” Charlotte said, hooking their arms together. “And they seem nice, and unlike the usual sort. It’d be worth every penny,” she added earnestly. 

Anne wasn’t sure whether she was talking to Mary or her. Mary’s severe expression softened when her companion spoke. Anne looked between them, holding her slight smirk.

“Sure,” Mary agreed, breaking the long silence. “Only because I see you’re appropriately dressed. Meet me on the shore nearest the shop at half past five tomorrow morning—and make sure your Miss Walker’s wearing a hat and boots like yours. The cliffs are brittle, and the beach muddy. Lots of falling rocks.”

Anne bid farewell to Mary with a handshake and an earnest thank you, then wove her way through the crowd to tell Ann the exciting news.

***

“I look a bit silly, don’t I?” Ann said, wrinkling her nose while she looked at herself in the cloudy mirror.

They brought simple dresses with them specifically for fossiling. The dense fabric would be more comfortable in the wind and take the beating of the muddy cliffs, should they slip. Her feet were too small for the boots, but fit well enough after adding several pairs of wool socks. Ann knew it was for the best, and would do anything for her wife, but she felt so ugly.

The clothes themselves weren’t inherently silly—they looked dashing on Anne, who wore them with such confidence that Ann craved thick, weathered cloth under her hands instead of the layers of delicate fabrics she herself wore. No. All awkwardness radiated from the model herself. The clothes trapped Ann under lumpy folds, and their dark colors accentuated her sunken eyes, culminating in a ghastly reflection. 

“You’re beautiful,” Anne said. 

She was lying. How could anyone look at her, like this, and think that? The lie didn’t hurt as much as the truth might have though, Ann supposed. Anne’s fingertip traced the planes of her face, light enough to tickle, teasing an unwilling smile from her lips.

“It’s true,” Anne urged, as if reading her mind. “You would look lovely wearing a sack of flour for a dress. That doesn’t mean I’d want you to do it all the time. But when you do, you manage to look a little bit ethereal, regardless.”

Their noses brushed. Ann kissed her, coy and gentle, not knowing quite what to say. Anne’s warm breath on her cheek was enough to stop her from spiraling into a fit of melancholy, and they swayed gently in their embrace, nearly lulling Ann asleep again. She surfaced when Anne kissed her.

Anne said, “Are you ready?” 

She replied, “Of course.” 

She wouldn’t really ever be. Not on her own.

When they arrived on the beach at half-past five sharp, Mary and Charlotte were already there. Mary was already focused, prowling over the loose stones, but Charlotte greeted them with a wave. Anne returned it jovially. Ann smiled, then took in the view, and for the first time understood its magical property, how such a thing could heal any grievance. 

The sun rose on the opposite side of the cliffs, touching distant waves with warm gold and bathing the beach in mystical blue shadow. Ann rarely woke early enough to watch the rest of the world rise with the sun, and the morning brought with it memories of the night before. A fallen bird’s nest lay half-destroyed on a rock. The cliff face gleamed wet from the tides. Rocks of all sizes emerged for the first time in the cliff, and even more lay strewn across the beach, most broken in half from the fall. The idea that this was all under water—not just last night, but over and over again, each time born anew, ripping bones older than Ann or anyone she knew from the rock—gave the shore an enchanting quality. It was ephemeral and ancient, all at once. 

Charlotte knelt next to a larger rock and turned it over while Mary combed the rest of the beach. Anne walked with her, stopping every few steps to look up at the cliff, then caught up to Mary, who evidently paid no attention to her.

“I imagine we’ll go up high on the cliffs to collect what others are too fearful to find?” Anne asked. She held her arm up against the rising sun, scanning the clifftops for anomalies.

“No,” Mary answered.

Charlotte explained, “The tides lap away at the rock. It’s a busy morning after a storm—things fall, new pieces further down become unveiled, everything changes. It requires less courage than you expect, and more patience than most mortals manage.”

Charlotte touched her companion’s shoulder tenderly. The gentle ministrations of her thumb were as good as a kiss, as far as Ann’s suspicions of the two were concerned. She might as well have cupped Mary’s face in both her hands and showered her in affection. Ann caught her wife’s eye and matched her small smile. Under the care of her companion, Mary’s cheeks warmed and a grin flourished on her lips.

“It’s a skill,” Mary said humbly. “It can all be learned.”

Ann tried her best to love the scenery and channel the same fascination into fossiling as her wife did. Anne chatted away about a thousand and one things—her work with George Cuvier, her travels, everything she knew about fossils to Mary—her energy propelling the pair of them along the shore far quicker than Charlotte, who helped Ann navigate the loose, rocky shore. 

“How long have you two been...companions?” Ann asked while they walked.

A warm smile touched Charlotte’s lips. “Just over a year now. For my health, originally, but now…” She trailed off, and Ann’s curiosity got the better of her.

“Now…?” she pressed.

“Well. I’m sure you know how it is. We bring out a tenderness in each other. Before, like a void that couldn’t be filled, but now—“ she sucked in a breath. “Now that we have it, if it was gone, I think it’d swallow me whole.”

“I feel the same,” Ann said, and realized she’d never been able to say something like that before.

“Though I could do without all the holes she puts in her sleeves and skirts,” Charlotte added with a laugh, watching the pair crawl three or four meters up the cliff face. 

“I am truly like Sisyphus, mending the same holes over and over,” Ann agreed brightly. “She has almost ten pairs of gloves, and I swear I’ve mended all of them thrice over. At  _ least _ .”

Charlotte nearly screamed with laughter. “Mary’s got a single pair, and she watches me mend them with that impatient scowl—and always saying, ‘I can do it myself, you know, I’m not a child,’” she mimicked in a low voice. “But she’s so impatient to get on with the next that it ends up looking like a child got to it.”

“Oh, I know  _ exactly _ what you mean,” Ann said, giggling.

At one point, Charlotte picked up an ordinary rock slathered in mud, and waved her over.

“Hang on, I have something to show you,” she said, and led her to the water.

Mud peeled back under the waves to real a tiny imprint on the outside face of the rock, no bigger than her fingernail.

“It looks…like a snail,” Ann observed stupidly.

“Maybe. Mary says something like this is thousands of years old. Maybe even older,” she said breathlessly. “A thousands-year-old snail. Takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”

Ann could hardly comprehend that anything could be a thousand years old, much less a piece of rock no bigger than a fingernail in her own palm.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Behind them, Anne’s voice echoed off the rock face, enthusiastic but undecipherable. Anne knelt fully on the ground, inspecting two muddy halves of a rock and firing off questions. Wind tugged wisps of brown-and-gray hair loose, tossing a strand over and over again into her open mouth. She rolled her sleeves up to save them from getting dirty and torn—to no avail. Ann found her wife’s passion endearing, but Mary’s expression indicated the opposite. Ann apologized gently to Charlotte, who rushed over to rescue an irritated Mary from the conversation.

Ann caught up to her wife slowly, taking careful, delicate steps. She was grateful for her heavy boots on the uneven terrain. When she neared, the two women were caught up in a heavy conversation. Ann understood the spiritual bits—she and Anne discussed religion all the time—but when the conversation transitioned to their scientific interests, it all went over her head. Like it  _ always _ did.

Somehow, Anne had teased the hint of a smile out of Mary. Mary was laughing, and said, “All a bit strange, isn’t it, how men have the evidence of things beyond their understanding right in front of them, and instead of thinking they’re wrong, they reject it.”

Anne furrowed her brow, then replied, “What was wrong with the plesiosaur? We saw it in London. I can understand how it would be impossible to believe, if you haven’t seen it. It’s big, there’s nothing like it in the oceans that we’ve seen, but that’s true for any number of monsters—what made this one different?”

Ann remembered the plesiosaur clearly. The massive fossil had so many bits and pieces, Ann wondered how anyone could make sense of them. Its amalgam of shapes and sizes could have come from the mind of an artist, piecing them together like Frankenstein’s monster, only well and truly lifeless. She hadn’t considered its age then, only its strangeness. Could a creature like that really have lived in the sea?

“Thirty-five vertebrae in the neck,” Mary said simply. “I know, I pulled them all out of this cliff myself. Do you know how many a human being has?”

Ann didn’t even know what vertebrae were. 

“Seven,” Anne answered. The only thing her wife loved more than asking a question was answering one correctly. Ann could have kissed the smirk at the corner of her lip.

“And a giraffe?”

“No idea,” Anne admitted.

“The same number. You can see how thirty-five is ludicrous. They called me a liar, and the fossil a fake, at first.”

“How did you manage to prove them wrong?” Anne said.

Ann’s heart melted at that. Her wife was talented at setting up clever, interesting conversation, even with strangers. Teasing conversation out of the quiet Mary Anning was proof enough of her talent. Ann perked up in anticipation of the incoming story.

Mary laughed, like a bark from the back of her throat. She said, “They sorted it out themselves. The thing was already bought, the papers written and refuted and refuted again. I suppose somewhere along the line my name was mentioned—only in passing, I’m sure. They see me as a proprietor, Miss Lister. Not a scientist.”

“Are you not?”

“What would you call a man who excavates his own discoveries, cleans them up, and ponders what they might be using scientific method and reviewing with his peers?” Mary said. “Then they pin his discovery in a museum, and the name of the artifact is accompanied by his own—what would you call him?”

“I’d call him a scientist, I suppose. A geologist,” Anne clarified, sensing a trick question.

“You would. But a woman who does those things—she is a  _ proprietor _ . Men write papers about my fossils—men who have never pulled one from the clay themselves, who wouldn’t know an ammonite from a piece of granite if it was covered in mud. But they’re scientists, Miss Lister, because they paid twenty pounds for the skull of a long dead creature from Anning’s Fossil Depot.”

“Don’t sell to them,” Anne suggested.

“Hmm?”

“I said, don’t sell to—”

“Unfortunately, Miss Lister, my life means more to me than my dignity,” Mary said coldly. 

Anne didn’t skip a beat. She pressed, “How did you come to know these things, to speak to these men? Surely you must have some influence in the world to better this situation.”

“How does anyone come to know anything?” Mary countered. “Books. Conversations. Living. Paying attention. I may not have the means to travel the world, but men and women alike come from all over the world to see what I do. They take more than they give. Sometimes that’s the way it is.”

Anne bit her lip, thinking. Quieting her to contemplation was a rare thing. All Anne talked about on their way to Lyme Regis was Mary, her tone brimming with the affection of kinship. Now that they were here, in her presence, their differences couldn’t have been starker. 

Walking back to the shop, Ann admired the sharp figures Anne and Mary cut as they strode purposefully ahead. Anne in her solemn black, that delicious top hat, her stick-straight spine; Mary with her tattered tartan, hair flying about her face, dirty hands weighed down by tools and discoveries. Anne was widely read, spoke a dozen languages, had traveled to the continent and back; Mary had scarcely left the fossil-encrusted cliffs of Lyme Regis. Shibden Hall, its rolling hills, its profitable coal pits couldn’t have been farther away from the cramped apartment behind Anning’s Fossil Depot. 

Charlotte nudged her shoulder and whispered, “Does she always walk so bloody fast? Mine does.”

Ann nodded, feeling giddy discussing her wife like this. She’d never—well, not out  _ loud _ . There had been hints and brushed knees and pointed looks, but she’d never properly acknowledged what they were to each other, much less these domestic annoyances. The tiny things that built up in a marriage, the things that were so specific and trivial and precious. No one else could understand what it was like being married to a woman like Anne, or so she assumed. 

No, Ann corrected herself. She was wrong before; Anne and Mary were more alike than they were different. Tall and broody, scientific and rough around the edges, perpetually tearing holes in their clothes and tracking mud inside. They were passionate and intelligent and maddening, funny and thoughtful and hard-working, long-legged and walking much too fast for their companions. 

“Oi!” Charlotte called sharply, freezing Ann in her place. “Get back here, you two.”

Mary turned on her heel, sharp eyes finding them in the crowd. Anne spun around as well, lips parted like she’d been interrupted mid-sentence; with a tilt of her chin, Ann beckoned her back. These two passionate, intelligent, scientific women trotted back to their better halves, tails between their legs. Yes, Ann decided as her smallest finger wrapped around Anne’s, they were more similar than they were different. 

“Excellent,” Anne declared as they returned. “Good. Amazing. Don’t you think, Miss Walker?” 

She couldn’t help taking Ann’s hand, even in front of these strangers. Anne was so excited, bless her, and so heartbreakingly adorable like this. Ann squeezed her hand in response, nodding in agreement with her invigorated wife. 

“We have had an  _ excellent _ day,” she continued, addressing Mary. “Can we have you for supper? At the hotel?”

“Oh, I don’t—” the geologist started, but Ann saw a tender hand curl around the older woman’s forearm.

“We’d be delighted,” Charlotte answered easily, sharing a knowing smile with Ann. It was difficult, sometimes, controlling passionate, proud women, wasn’t it? “We’ll see you in about an hour.”

Anne checked her pocket watch, and they were off. She handed Ann into the carriage, and a shiver skated over Ann’s spine. The intimacy of the carriage was a welcome reprieve after the day out; Ann felt herself rather exhausted from the company and energized by the closeness of her dashing wife. Anne vaulted into the carriage as she always did, hurriedly closing the drapes before she sat down. In an instant, Ann found herself on her wife’s knee, giggling and accepting a passionate kiss. 

“What’s that for?” She asked when they finally parted.

“Does it have to be  _ for _ anything?” Anne asked, tracing her hand across Ann’s back. “Is it not enough to kiss my wife after such an excellent day?”

“You’ve said that,” Ann laughed.

“Said what?”

“‘Excellent.’ About a thousand times.”

“Well, it is excellent,” Anne said defensively. “I’m sorry to have bored you.”

“Pony,” her wife drawled, “that’s not what I meant. I had an excellent day.” She kissed Anne’s furrowed brow. “With my excellent wife.” The point of her long nose. “With our excellent new friends” Finally, her pouting lips.

Anne’s scowl slowly shifted into a smile, and Ann leaned into her wife’s chest. Rather easy to console this one, Ann thought, especially with a few well-intentioned kisses. For a few moments they bounced along in silence. Ann breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the woodsy scent that lived on her wife’s skin. She toyed with Anne’s long fingers, the gold band around the third one, the strong tendons pressing beneath her skin.

“It’s nice,” she said softly, “that they’re like us.”

“What do you mean?” 

“You know,” Ann tugged her ring finger meaningfully. “Like us.”

“Perhaps Miss Anning is,”Anne conceded, “but Mrs. Murchison —” 

“Pony,” Ann drawled.

Incredulous, Ann straightened to stare, dumbfounded, at her wife, who was, apparently, not only rather oblivious, but also totally blind.

“No.”

“Pony. Yes. They are. Exactly like us.”

“Mrs. Murchison is married,” Anne said, as if working out a complicated equation.

“Mrs. Lawton is also married,” Ann replied, as gently as possible.

Anne’s lips parted, her eyes shifting between Ann’s face and the door of the carriage. She seemed to be forming half-words, but she never made a sound. Ann almost laughed at how confused and earnest she looked, but, instead, she simply curled one hand around her wife’s cheek and waited. 

“Like  _ us _ ,” Anne whispered at last. “ _ Both _ of them? Do you really think so?”

“Absolutely. Mrs. Murchison made it rather clear to me.”

Anne’s handsome face was still shadowed by disbelief until, in an instant, she burst out laughing. Ann joined her, shaking her head, and wondering at the incredible luck that had brought the four of them together.


	2. Large as an Ichthyosaurus

“I don’t like it,” Mary grumbled as they made their way into the restaurant. “I just don’t—”

“I know you don’t,” Charlotte said, sneaking her hand into Mary’s. “You’ll be just fine. I’m with you. Miss Lister is fascinated by you. Miss Walker is very kind. It won’t kill you.”

“Might.”

A shockingly pretentious man stopped them at the threshold, his nose held so highly aloft it may have been above his forehead. Every instinct in Mary’s head told her to turn and run. If not for Charlotte’s steadying hand in hers, she would have. 

“We’re meeting Miss Lister,” Charlotte told the man confidently. 

“Is she with you?” He asked in that ridiculous posh accent. Not even from around here, Mary thought with a roll of her eyes. 

“Miss Lister is a guest of the hotel,” Charlotte explained patiently. “We are meeting her for supper.”

“I mean,” the man spoke with exaggerated slowness, “is  _ she _ ,” he gestured vaguely to Mary, “with you?”

“Obviously.”

Charlotte’s patience had worn thin. Mary turned to study her profile. This was certainly—something. Something to remember for later. Mary bit her lip. 

“Miss Anning is banned from this establishment.”

“I’m what?” Mary said sharply.

“Fifteen years ago,” the imp continued, “you barged in here, with muddy boots and tattered clothes, and accosted one of our guests. You are not welcome in this establishment.”

Oh. Mary remembered that day. The fortune-hunter who’d pretended to be her friend, then claimed all of their work— _ her _ work—for himself. The first time she truly let her guard down. And the last. 

“Still?” Mary groaned. She pulled a protesting Charlotte back the way they’d come. “Let’s go.”

Before either of them could say another word, Mary heard Anne’s voice—that deep, unmistakable rumble with its ridiculous Northern lilt. Mary’s heart started to race; did her humiliation have to be complete tonight? Was not one scrap of her dignity safe?

She couldn’t hear Anne’s exact words, but she could hear the cadence of her voice. Soft, reassuring, authoritative. Mary paused, her back still toward the bright restaurant. Charlotte squeezed her hand, and they turned around. Anne was backlit, regal and straight-spined and righteously angry. She towered over this rude fellow, her index finger almost pressing into his chest and her eyes wielding daggers. Faintly, she could see Ann behind her, scurrying around with Anne’s ostentatious black hat and speaking to a stricken-looking young woman. In another moment more, they were out in the street, closing the distance between the couples.

“We’re off,” Anne barked at some poor chap to the side. “I won’t patronize such a poor establishment.”

“What’s happened?” Charlotte asked. 

“I won’t be staying in a hotel that turns away the most brilliant scientific mind I have encountered since Monseiur Cuvier,” she said.

Anne took her top hat from Miss Walker, then took a step closer to Mary; not for the first time, Mary wished for another two inches in height. How in the world was Anne taller than her? 

“We’d hate to ruin your meal,” Charlotte offered. 

“Not ruined at all,” Ann said, offering a small smile. “We hope you don’t mind putting us up for the night?”

“Of course not,” Charlotte answered. “We’d love to have you.”

Anne and Mary looked at each other, stricken and seeming to have the same thought: this wasn’t part of the bargain. Mary had no more desire to have two strangers in her home than she assumed the pretentious Miss Lister of Shibden Hall had desire to stay at Anning’s Fossil Depot. Before Mary could open her mouth, Ann and Charlotte were traipsing down the street together, leaving the two of them in the dust. If she had such a brilliant scientific mind, how had she been so thoroughly hoodwinked?

“She’s presumptuous, my—” Anne seemed to stop herself, “my companion. Miss Walker. We’ll find another—”

“You don’t need to,” Mary said, though she winced as the words left her lips. “We’ve got another bed. Doubt it’s like the one you’re leaving, though.”

“No matter,” Anne answered easily, striding after the departed blondes. “Miss Walker and I once slept in a  _ barn _ . Can you believe that?” She turned over her shoulder, cocking her head to one side. “Something the matter?”

Mary’s instinct was to answer in the affirmative. Having anyone in her home made her itchy, much less two near-strangers with whom she had nothing in common. She’d have liked for them to leave, to be gone and stay gone, to leave her in peace with her fossils and her Charlotte. Something about this Miss Lister, though—she couldn’t resist her. Instead, Mary found herself nodding and following after the eccentric woman from Halifax.

“I’ve got a question for you, anyway,” Anne continued. “Do you and Mrs. Murchison play backgammon?”

***

“She’s a strange one,” Mary said, watching Charlotte get into their bed. “Miss Lister. She’s a bit off.”

“Is she?” Charlotte asked off-handedly.

“The way she talks,” Mary said, scrunching her nose. “Shouldn’t have let them stay. That room—”

“Mary.” Charlotte took her hand as she passed the bed. “It’s fine. Come on.”

Swallowing dryly, Mary looked down at the woman in her bed. Her—her what? Her assistant, her friend, her—Mary couldn’t find the word. “Companion.” That’s what Anne had said about her Miss Walker. Mary didn’t think like that, not in such permanent terms. Being with Charlotte was ephemeral at times—like the waves breaking on the cliffs. Harsh and brutal and beautiful, but gone in an instant. When she’s here, in this bed, Mary couldn’t waste any more time thinking.

With a gentle tug, Charlotte tumbled into bed. It was still new, the way their lips met. New and intoxicating. Charlotte’s kisses were insistent, her hands hungry, and her hips already pressing into Mary’s. The storm that brewed between them—Mary always thought of their coupling as a storm—was strong that night. An overwhelming Charybdis that threatened to swallow her whole.

“Come here,” Charlotte hissed, tugging open the tie at Mary’s neck. “You’re gorgeous.”

A gentle groan slipped from Mary’s throat. Was it always this excellent? Somehow Mary thought it wasn’t. Something about the tiredness in her legs, the soreness of her arms, the slight ache in her back from trying to stretch taller than Anne—it only made Mary crazier. More desperate. Needing to feel her soft skin, she caressed Charlotte’s cheek, along her neck, the spot where her shoulder began. She couldn’t help gasping at the wet, sloppy kisses against her overheated skin.

“Shhhh,” Charlotte whispered against her breast. “Quiet.”

They weren’t much for talking, in or out of bed. It was all action between them—roaming hands and rumbling moans and ravenous lips. Charlotte sucked at her breast and neck, nipping lightly and pressing her grin against Mary’s overheated skin. The room was spinning, of that much Mary was sure. She grappled with the back of Charlotte’s head, with her own hair, with the pillow below her head. It was impossible, how good she felt, how good  _ Charlotte _ felt, how wet she already was. 

Unable to wait, Mary wrapped her hand around Charlotte’s wrist, thrusting it between her legs. She couldn’t resist, not anymore. Charlotte surfaced, grinning, and kissed her again. Mary was no longer on Earth; she was floating, high like the cliffs from which she carved her living. Charlotte pressed inside of her, and she was gone. Higher still, in the clouds, in the stars, past the sky and shooting straight toward God Himself.

***

“Be  _ quiet,”  _ Anne purred as she slid down her wife’s drawers. “I’m serious, Adney.”

“I will. I will,” Ann whined, nodding frantically and twisting her hips. “I can’t—I need you.”

“I know.” Anne grinned, pulling Ann’s chemise over her head. A naked Ann Walker, writhing and smiling and reaching for her wife—was there anything better? Anne was certain there wasn’t. “I’m here.”

Anne kissed her softly, slipping one arm under her wife’s lithe body. She was fairly certain they wouldn’t be disturbed. Not with the standoffish nature of their host, and certainly not with the fiery eyes Anne saw her making at young Mrs. Murchison across the dinner table. No, Anne figured it was well worth the risk to have her wife fully undressed before her. It was so much sweeter this way, with Ann’s soft skin beneath her hands and lips. Of course, Anne still had her own chemise on. She wasn’t completely mad

They were giggly this night, in bed. Sometimes they were properly romantic and soft, sometimes they were heated and desperate, and sometimes they were like this. For Anne, it was the euphoria of the day. A real day’s work under the English sun, with the waves crashing nearby and her wife salivating as she dug and lifted and carried. Nothing got Anne quite as hot as seeing desire burn in Ann’s eyes. 

“Pony,” she breathed, threading her fingers through Anne’s hair; this special nickname, the one Ann only used in private, set her on fire. The riding innuendos alone—Anne had to catch the growl that rumbled in her throat. “You’re so warm.”

Anne grinned and kissed her again. She pressed their bodies together, tracing her hand over Ann’s breast. Ann arched into her, making that breathy little moan Anne loved. A gentle roll of her hips, and Anne knew what she was asking for. A bit of a trial on this narrow bed, but she’d never been one to take the easy way out. 

“You’re beautiful.” Anne kissed her softly, then pulled away to smile widely. “You’re so bloody beautiful.”

“Don’t curse in bed,” Ann scolded gently, tucking a stray piece of hair behind Anne’s ear. “Are you going to kiss me or not?”

Scoffing, Anne kissed her lips again. She knew what Ann wanted, and it’s much more than a simple kiss. She could be a bit demanding, this wife of hers. A long, slow kiss, and then gentle hands pressed against her shoulders. Not exactly subtle, Anne thought with a wry smile. This was why she loved her. Why Ann was the perfect woman for her. Why she found herself, despite the cramped and unfamiliar surroundings, descending slowly over her wife’s flushed chest.

It was too exposed, really. This tiny house with the thin walls was a terrible place for Anne to give her wife a proper kiss, but she couldn’t stop herself. Ann’s breasts begged to be kissed, her ribs called out for Anne’s tongue, her soft belly needed to be licked and sucked and worshiped. Ann’s skin was like nectar, melting in her hands and on her tongue. For a moment, Anne just pressed her forehead to her wife’s stomach and breathed. The warm, heady scent of Ann’s arousal filled her nose, her lungs, her heart. 

“Pony,” Ann giggled, squirming under her wife’s strong hands. “Please, I—uh, I—oh.”

One way to get her wife quiet, Anne had realized, was to drop her head between her legs. To drag her tongue gently over her queer, the warm, wet center of the woman at the center of her world. The bed was too small - Anne had to nudge her wife toward the headboard, guiding her softly and tenderly. Quick calculations ran through Anne’s mind - the length of the bed, the curve of Ann’s back, the spread of her legs and the intoxicating heave of her chest. For a moment, Anne paused to admire the stunning creature who shared her bed.

“Dearest?” Ann whispered, cupping Anne’s damp cheek and searching her eyes. Anne grinned up at her and squeezed her hips playfully.

Bending her head, Anne kissed the delightful thatch of blonde curls at the top of her wife’s queer. How she loved these blonde wires—the way they brushed against her cheek and her hand, the way they covered her wife’s modesty, the way they clung to the sticky wetness that almost invariably met Anne when she descended here. Queer’s hair—it intoxicated her. Anne licked her lips and set to work.

Humidity and slick skin and soft moans. Ann was always vocal, but it was so much better when she was trying to be quiet. Slender fingers slipped through Anne’s hair, while restless hips pressed vainly against her hands. Not so fast, Anne thought smugly. Her young wife never did understand the beauty of patience. The beauty of a slow stroke and soft lips and gentle, encouraging circles.

Fire built in Anne’s belly as she slowly increased her speed. She pressed a little harder, sucked a little longer, kissed a little sweeter. Making love to a beautiful woman always set Anne alight, but it was different with her wife. Always had been, even before they took the Sacrament. Their bodies just fit together; Anne had no doubt that the Lord had created Ann specifically to fit in her arms, to wear her ring, to share her life.

“Pony,” came the soft whine. Needy hands grappled across Anne’s shoulders, the hand on Ann’s hip, the back of her head. “Kiss me. Anne—Anne, please.”

More than happy for the change of position, Anne crawled slowly forward. She kissed her wife’s hips, the soft rolls of her belly, the flat plane of her sternum, the delicious curves of her breasts, the decadent strain of her nipples. Ann was flushed - they both were. That fire grew stronger, burning brightly between them as Anne caught her wife’s lips in a fierce kiss. 

Past the point of waiting, Anne slipped her long fingers right to the spot where her lips and tongue had just been. With firm circles and purposeful strums, she stoked the flame higher and higher. Incoherent, breathy babbles filled Anne’s ears. She kissed her wife’s neck, just under her jaw, and pressed forward until she was sheathed in the delicious warmth of her wife’s queer. She rutted with abandon, never mind the burning in her forearm - this was too perfect. With a sound kiss and a twist of her hand, Anne sent her wife into oblivion; Ann stretched taut, groaned, and trembled in her arms. The beauty of release—it never failed to amaze her.

“Very good,” Anne whispered in her ear. “You’re brilliant, darling. You’re beautiful.”

“I love you,” her wife breathed as she stilled, her eyes still closed. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

In response, Anne could only kiss her. Perhaps in this manner her lips could express what her words could not. The depth of her feeling eluded words. How could a simple sentence do justice to the feeling in her chest? No, the only way for Anne Lister to express love was through action. Through pit-building and casino-opening and journey-taking. Through kisses and rings and promises. 

“Pony,” Ann hummed as she slid her hand from Anne’s face, along her arm. “Can I—”

“Yes,” Anne answered automatically, catching her wife’s hand and kissing the palm of it.

Some nights, she didn’t. Some nights bringing her wife pleasure was enough. Some nights the old demons returned, and she couldn’t take the vulnerability. Not tonight, though. Not after the day on the beach and the taste on her tongue. No, tonight Anne needed the gentle, eager touch of her wife’s clumsy fingers. 

“You’re so strong,” Ann whispered, trailing one hand along Anne’s side. “You make me so proud.” She slipped under Anne’s nightshirt. “I just - oh, dearest, when we were on the beach.” She slipped between Anne’s legs, and Anne dropped her head into the crook of her wife’s neck. “I wanted to kiss you so badly.” 

It was all Anne could do to avoid crying out. She wouldn’t, not Anne, but she certainly wanted to. Torturous circles between her legs, and Anne had to bite down on the tender flesh of her wife’s shoulder. Far enough that the mark wouldn’t be visible in Ann’s dress. Even with this inferno licking at the base of her spine, Anne was calculating the risk. Then she was gone—lost to the pleasure burning her skin and tensing her muscles. Anne rolled her hips into Ann’s hand—she was still learning, the poor thing - and then she felt it. The towering flame of her desire reached its peak, consumed her whole, then left her charred and breathless and collapsing on top of her delicate little wife.

“Oh, Pony,” Ann whispered happily. “I love you.”

Anne grunted, kissed her neck, rose shakily to hover over her wife’s proud face. She always looked like this when they’re done—so proud of herself she was almost smug. Anne shook her head and kissed her. Slow and deep and loving. They parted, and Anne scrambled to her feet. She tossed Ann her nightshirt and watched as that perfect, pale body disappeared under the thin white linen. Turning toward their trunk, she considered her journal. It would be nice to get all the details down while they’re still fresh in her head. A soft voice cut through the night.

“Come to bed, Pony.”

Anne smiled and crawled back into the narrow bed, fitting herself easily behind her wife and wrapping an arm around her waist.

“I hope we weren’t too loud,” Anne teased softly. “This isn’t the chaumiere, you know.”

Before Ann could even protest, they heard it. Both of them, at the same moment, heard it. Low, breathless rumbling. Higher moans, so soft they could almost be the wind. The telltale thump of the headboard. Ann twisted over her shoulder, her face stricken. Biting her lip to keep from laughing, Anne raised her eyebrows playfully. What a joy, she thought as she closed her eyes, to be surrounded by love. Dirty, sentimental, impractical, too-loud, impossible-to-resist, large-as-an-icthyosaurus love. 

***

A gentle whine escaped Mary’s lips, and she curled upward, shaking and gasping in Charlotte’s arms. Charlotte grinned and kissed her neck, grateful for the high collars that allowed her to suck and bite along Mary’s chest with abandon. Mary was limp, but she was gesturing, tilting her head back and squeezing Charlotte’s hips. A shiver skated along Charlotte’s spine—it was like that then, was it? Charlotte waddled forward, tugging her nightshirt over her head as she went. Mary was hungry, pulling her hips down onto her own face.

Oh, and it was incredible. The way Mary unraveled her with her lips and tongue. Charlotte preferred it infinitely more than Mary’s hands; too like her husband, Charlotte figured, but perhaps it was just greed. Mary was so good with her mouth. Usually set in a firm line or a deep scowl, Mary’s lips were her first line of defense. The grumpy look that keeps prying eyes at bay. In bed, however? They were Charlotte’s undoing. 

Pressing her cheek to the cool wall, Charlotte keened and bucked her hips. Mary gripped her tighter, squeezed her ass, then faltered. Charlotte smiled softly, knowing this meant her Mary was touching herself while she made furious love to her. They weren’t tender, not tonight. Tonight they were crashing together like waves against the shore. Pressure built Charlotte’s chest, between her legs, in every muscle of her body.

Every breath was a moan now; Charlotte couldn’t even pretend to keep quiet. They haven’t had need to be, not in months, and the guests in the next room were long forgotten. She rolled her body into Mary’s deliberate, desperate tongue. The bed creaked and groaned beneath them, bumping rhythmically against the wall. There it was - the huge wave of her pleasure, stretching before her. With one final, firm stroke, Charlotte was gone. She shook and whined and slumped back into bed next to her love.

Hands found cheeks, lips fit to lips, and Charlotte’s turned her fossil-hunter onto her back, pulling her hand from between her own legs, pinning both above that dark head of hair. She kissed Mary fiercely, then slipped her slender hand between those powerful thighs. They’d be up for a while yet. 

***

“Alright, Pony?” Ann asked as they sat at the table the next morning.

They’d arisen before their hosts, but Anne could never just stay in bed. She’d never dawdle away a morning, not even on holiday. Now she was cracking her wrist, rubbing and twisting and grimacing. Ann almost laughed at how ridiculously serious she looks.

“Always,” Anne smiled, taking her hand. “Just a bit—you know, I do get rather sore.” Her smile turned into a rakish grin. “I did work rather hard last night.” 

Blushing, Ann giggled and covered her face. It still embarrassed her, sometimes, the blatant fact of what they do together. It was all well and good in the moment, wrapped up and desperate and needy, but it was rather stark in the light of day. Except for those mornings, Ann reminded herself with a slight shiver. Oh, and the occasional afternoon. She bit her lip, wondering if there’s any way she could lure her wife back into bed.

“I wonder,” Anne whispered fiendishly, “if we’re about to see Miss Anning come through that door,” she squeezed Ann’s hand playfully, “with a rather sore arm as well.”

“Pony!” Ann laughed. “Don’t even - don’t say that! It’s—it’s—”

“The truth, my love,” Anne kissed the back of her hand.

At just that moment, Miss Anning did appear. Just as brutish and harsh as yesterday, though Ann fancied she seemed a bit rosier in the cheeks today. Maybe not. Wishful thinking.

“Morning,” she grunted and starts clattering about with pots and coal.

Before Ann could start missing Cordingley too much, Charlotte arrived, smiling and fashionably dressed. Mary lit up instantly with her entrance.

“Good morning all,” she chirped brightly, “but Good Lord, does my wrist hurt.”

***

Mary reminded her of a horse they had at Shibden—stubborn, but dependable. He’d been so upset when Pickles had changed the direction of the walk, he’d refused to walk on it. Nearly thrown a shoe, as Anne recalled. Mary Aning seemed to be the same—rather proud and stuck in her ways and gruff. Anne couldn’t shake the nagging feeling of familiarity.

She’d been standoffish this morning, Mary had, and Anne was desperate to set it right. Not  _ desperate _ , not really. Anne Lister of Shibden Hall was in no way going to coddle a grown woman, especially not one who was so gauche.

And yet, Anne found herself sidling up to the gruff geologist as she readied her tools for the day. Like watching an animal in its natural habitat. Anne didn’t want to spook her. 

The tools, the self-assurance, the knowledge of the cliffs—Anne was in awe of her. She fancied Mary knew Lyme Regis as well as Anne knew Shibden. A spot of jealousy flamed in her heart—why didn’t  _ Shibden _ have fantastic scientific discoveries for her? All she had was that headache-inducing coal.

Next to most women, Anne felt dashing and strong and rugged. Next to Mary, she felt rather like a fop. She hadn’t forgotten her childlike eagerness yesterday or slipping against the rockface while Mary scrambled ahead of her like a goat. Yes, Anne thought, that was a perfect analogy. A goat.

“You’re a bit like a goat, aren’t you?” Anne offered kindly. “You know what you’re doing, you like to butt heads,” she joked, “you’re smarter than anyone gives you credit for.”

“Anne,” her wife’s voice called sharply from the other side of the shop. “I’m certain I’ve misheard you and you did  _ not _ just refer to our host as a goat.”

Oh.

Oh,  _ no _ w _ , _ Anne understood. Not everyone appreciated goats in the way she did. Oh, no. Oh, this was terribly gauche, wasn’t it? Anne’s cheeks burned. How had she managed to do this  _ again? _

“Quite like goats,” Mary murmured, so softly Anne almost missed it. 

“Do you?” Anne breathed.

“Better than a horse’s arse, which is what you are half the time.”

Had she just—did that really—surely Anne had misheard. For an instant, they stared at each other. The depot fell silent - their wives must have heard Mary’s comment as well. Anne’s jaw hung open, her eyes carefully searching this strange woman’s face. No one had ever spoken to her like that before. 

Mary quirked an eyebrow.

Anne laughed.

They both laughed, and then Ann and Charlotte joined them. Anne doubled over, wiped a tear from her eye, clapped her hand around Mary’s shoulder. Not the way she’d touch another woman, not like she’d put her hand on Ann. No, more like the way she used to embrace Sam. Jovial. That kind of sisterly relationship she missed with Marian.

“You’re a pair,” Charlotte laughed, crossing the room to hand Mary her freshly mended gloves. “Are they joining us, or not?” 

Three pairs of eyes turned to Mary, who held all the cards. Anne set her jaw in anticipation. Had she been too much yesterday? Mary did prefer solitude, didn’t she? They’d find a different hotel, go to York, even all the way back to Halifax. Anne fiddled with the chain of her pocket watch. Rather a miscalculation on her part, she supposed.

“Of course,” Mary said gruffly. “It’ll take more than one day to dip a toe into a lifetime of work.”


End file.
